


Another Night Out

by traitorfromscepter4 (GALRAAKEITH)



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Arcades, Attempt at Humor, Dance Dance Revolution - Freeform, Drag AU, Gen, M/M, TURBO THOT, despacito, drag queen fushimi, every time we touch, i tried my best ok, it's not stated bc i couldn't figure out how to work it in but uhh trans man yata, kim k slides, pro skateboarder yata, slightly ooc probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 05:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16826497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GALRAAKEITH/pseuds/traitorfromscepter4
Summary: the one where fushimi uses drag as an escapism method from his mundane life and is lowkey a thot, and yata is a very weak, pan man who got caught up in fushimi's grace and beauty (ft. kusanagi as an arcade owner, the kamamotos' diner, DDR, and author's shitty attempts at humour)





	Another Night Out

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaa ok im just gonna post this now bc if i dont then ill NEVER post it and damnit i put too much time into it for it to never see the light of day  
> this originally started out as an rp starter on my fushimi blog in 2013 LMAO (gabe/rinai/cooking-yata, if ur out there boi, this is for u my man) and i started working on finishing this back in like june/july but then i had to edit it and i just........... didn't touch it until now lol  
> i tried?? to remain as respectful as possible with like, references to gender vs appearance & assuming and shit, but i also didn't wanna make things super convoluted & ooc, ya feel me? it's already probably ooc a bit oops.......... but anyway, if there's something like, glaringly offensive in it, im sorry!! my dumb nonbinary ass tried my best.  
> thank u to mayu for betaing!! ur the mvp bb  
> this is my first time posting on ao3 so sorry if formatting got hashtag fucked up  
> anyway, without further ado.........

It was just another day for Fushimi. He had woken up, gone to work, and slaved over paperwork for hours and then came home. And just like any other day, he changed into something very different from his uniform, did his makeup—which, with his practice, didn’t take him very long. Dramatic eyeshadow, rimmed with black eyeliner, transitioning from thick to thin, and long, feathery lashes; it gave his azure eyes an almost haunted look—it was certain to say that his eyes were unforgettable. And with the sculpture of his face—high cheekbones and hollow cheeks—he didn’t need to do much contouring.

His clothes had gone from his boring uniform—white button-down shirt, and navy blue pants, with a vest and blue jacket—to a small sapphire number. The dress was tight; it hugged his curves, accentuating them. Fushimi’s legs were pale, slim, and since they were freshly shaven—even though he didn’t need to shave that much, he had never really had much hair—they were smooth and silky. Paired with the black pumps he had chosen to don on his feet, his legs appeared even longer than normal. Long extensions added to his natural raven blue hair made it look like he had long straight hair until you got close to the ends, where it curled almost perfectly.

Needless to say, Fushimi looked good. In both drag, and out.

And he was ready to go out into town.

~~~~~~

Sitting at the bar and leaning on the counter, he sips his martini—free, on the house; his flirting skills were useful for things like this—and watches the crowd dancing; music blasting from the speakers set up around the club. Bodies are packed tightly together, writhing in a way that society now called dancing; this was his scene. Fushimi feels at home here, drinking till his head spins, dancing till he drops, all the while dressed in drag. And of course, every once in a while, bringing home a companion for the night. Sometimes, they would leave, too flustered to continue after finding out that Fushimi wasn’t who they expected—to which Fushimi would roll his eyes and scoff as they left; teaches them right for assuming, in his opinion—but most times they stayed, and Fushimi and his guest of the night would carry on with their business.

Tonight was a night like any other, watching people from a distance, looking for his next victim—well, person to warm his bed for a night. And just like every other night, there were the middle aged men who would come and sit next to him, not suspecting his bite, and try to hit on him. Leering close to him, the smell of alcohol on their breath, hands roaming up his legs, wedding rings not hidden, dressed in suits; it was obvious that these men were just ordinary husbands going through a mid-life crisis, whether it be at work or at home. Though with the rings clearly displayed on their fingers, it was a safe guess that it was problems at home—whether it’s fights with their spouse, or rebellious children.

Tonight’s older player is a man, probably about 40 years old, with salt and pepper hair. He wears a brown business suit, and a briefcase rests on the floor next to his feet.  _ A lawyer then, or perhaps a salaryman… _ He’s tired—you can see that much. Purple bags hang under his eyes, deep set wrinkles don his forehead; his suit is wrinkled as well. Stress shows in his eyes and in the pinched corners of his mouth; it was logical to assume he had a rough day at work.

He’s talking, rambling on about how his boss was too harsh on him, expecting things that were near impossible. And about how he suspected his wife was cheating on him. 

_ Well isn’t that funny? You’re worried that your wife is cheating on you, mad about it too, yet here you are. Hitting on me, and trying to get into my pants. You don’t even realize your hypocrisy, do you? _

Fushimi snorts derisively under his breath, muttering about the irony.

_ Will you just shut up and go away? _

The man doesn’t catch the snort, too caught up in his ranting and the sound of his own voice. But the person sitting on the other side of Fushimi does. Fushimi hears a small chuckle, and not a minute later there is a napkin sliding his way with a note written on it. He pulls the napkin closer to him to inspect it; it’s wrinkled slightly, but appears otherwise unused,  _ thank the lord _ , and the text upon it is written in a messy scrawl that was  _ just _ on this side of being too legible to belong to a middle schooler.

**That guy is an idiot.**

Fushimi smirks slightly at the note, and subtly reaches over to grab the pen near the stranger’s hand. In his own tight, half-assed cursive writing, he replies

**_Oh? Into stating the obvious are we?_ **

and slides the napkin back towards his left. There’s a scoff, amused from the sound of it, at Fushimi’s reply, and then the click of a pen. Fushimi keeps his eyes on the lawyer he had originally been talking with, who hasn’t noticed the exchange between the two, while he waits to get a note back.

He doesn’t let himself look away from the boring man until he feels the gentle nudge of paper against his arm and a soft poke from the pen against his hand. He glances down at the freshly written note.

**Hey, all I’m sayin’ is that if I was talking to a beautiful person like you, I wouldn’t waste my breath complainin’ about how shitty my day was. I’d try to tell you something interesting or impressive at least, though I’d rather hear about you.**

At this, Fushimi turns his head slightly to the left, and coolly assesses his pen pal. It’s not anything Fushimi hasn’t heard before, but there seems to be a genuine earnestness in the words, a youthful innocence that’s rare for him to encounter. He can’t make out much looking from just the sides of his eyes, but the stranger Fushimi is trading notes like a second grader with appears to be a young man—Fushimi would say almost too young to be in this bar, but he knows it’s a high-class establishment that’s extremely thorough about preventing those with fake IDs from getting in—with short, auburn hair, and wide eyes that belie his age. They sparkle under the bar’s less than impressive lighting, and a small, shy smile graces his lips as he stares back. The faint hint of a blush would give an outsider the idea that he’s bashful, or embarrassed, but Fushimi knows they would be a fool to think that the stranger is anything less than determined. It is in the slight crook to his lips, the way his eyebrows angle in an almost challenge.

And, well, Fushimi wouldn’t say he’s an impulsive person, tending to prefer to mull over his words and actions before doing anything, so much so that his coworkers like to tease that he broods, but the lawyer is still droning on about who knows what now, and Fushimi was starting to get dangerously  _ bored _ , until this stranger decided to butt-in, and really, who could blame him for wanting to have a good time?

Turning back to the lawyer, Fushimi brusquely interrupts him. “Not that this hasn’t been fun, because listening to your whining about how hard your job is or your hypocrisy over your wife is the  _ epitome _ of a good time, but I’d like to get on with my night and obviously, that won’t involve you.” He stands, tossing back the last dregs of his martini, and shoves the note carrier napkin into his clutch, while the older man gapes at him like a fish. Fushimi had assumed that he was harmless, most of the middle-aged creeps he encountered were, with their most dangerous move being a lecherous leer or a bigoted slur, but in this case he had calculated wrong. The moment he hears the scrape of a stool moving back and feels a sweaty hand clamp down on his wrist, Fushimi sighs.

_ Such a fucking pain. _

The creep doesn’t get far in his probably only half thought out plans, only managing to drag Fushimi closer to him and get out the first few words of his anger. “Fucking bitch..!” There’s a shout, and the scrape of another stool moving, which is probably Fushimi’s pen pal, planning to defending his honor, but there is no need.

With a roll of his eyes and a quick jab of his elbow to the man’s gut, Fushimi steps around to press up against his back, pulling out one of his concealed daggers and pressing the sharp blade against the man’s neck.

From this vantage point he can see that it is the man he had been conversing with that had gotten up. Anger and concern etch his face, and his hands are drawn into fists. It’d be endearing, if Fushimi weren’t so annoyed that everyone seems to think he can’t defend himself whenever he’s in drag.

“Look, we can do this the civil way or the fun way. The civil way is that you let me walk out of here without a problem, and you go back home to your wife and apologize for being a piece of shit husband, while the fun way is you continue to be an idiot and I get to try out my new knife I just got. It was a gift from my boss, styled like an ancient tantō but designed in disguise. It’s lovely, isn’t it? Such a shame that I haven’t found the opportunity to use it yet though…” he clicks his tongue, shaking his head mockingly. It is a beautiful blade though, he isn’t lying; not counting the hilt, it’s about 7 ½ inches in length, with the hilt and sheath made to make it appear to be a wooden fan, and the monture and leaf are bright blue.

The man in his grip stutters and trembles as Fushimi pulls the blade back tighter, the pressure not yet hard enough to draw blood. Leaning his head forward, he whispers in his ear “so, what will it be, hmm?”

Fushimi’s eyes flick up to look at the person he’d been corresponding with, meeting his gaze for only a hair’s breadth of a second, while his captent struggles to wheeze out an answer. Surprisingly, Fushimi can’t detect any disgust or fear in his eyes, only admiration and a hint of desire. But then he has to look back down at the person he has trapped in his arms as he finally manages to spit out an answer.

“T-the easy… _ wheeze _ …way, p-please.”

Inwardly, Fushimi smirks.

_ I thought so, coward. _

But outwardly, he clicks his tongue in not-entirely-feigned annoyance, releasing him and swiftly sheathing his tantō and returning it to its hiding place. “So predictable, like everyone else. Doesn’t matter either way though, I suppose.” With that, he steps back fully, letting the man run off and out of the bar, not even taking the time to look back and glare.

Fushimi runs his hand through his extensions, smoothing the locks of hair from any disarray the encounter may have caused. To an outsider, it may appear as if he’s taking a moment to calm himself. After all, he does appear to be a woman, one with a frame that some might assume means he has a  _ delicate constitution _ . That’s a load of bullshit if you ask him. But either way, in actuality, Fushimi is taking a moment to assess the situation. The lawyer is gone. The bartender has gone back to her work, mixing the drink for a patron’s order. Anybody who had been staring at the spectacle has stopped, resuming their lives. All with the exception of one.  _ Him _ . Fushimi’s new acquaintance. He is still watching Fushimi’s every move, enraptured, like Icarus with the sun.

Now that Fushimi has room and time to breathe, he can properly examine him. He’s shorter than Fushimi, standing at what Fushimi guesses to be around 5’6” to 5’7”. Unlike the other men in the bar, he has chosen to forego the typical three-piece suit, opting instead for an untucked button down in a deep crimson, almost wine color, with a black skinny tie, and matching fitted black slacks. So nothing too out of place for the norm of this establishment, albeit a bit more casual than most would be comfortable showing up in. But that’s until Fushimi notices the other man’s shoes.

Black high-top converse.

_ Who wears converse to a high-class bar? What is he, a moron? _

Fushimi has to admit, though, it is refreshing to see someone unwilling to conform to the unstated dress code. But that doesn’t mean he’s able to stifle a snort at the sight of his shoes, though he manages to (mostly) suppress his smirk.

“ _ Oi _ , what’re you laughing at?”

He lifts his gaze back up to the other’s face and quirks a brow. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” he drawls, “I simply find your choice of footwear…  _ interesting _ .”

The stranger’s face twists in indignation and he sputters. “Chucks are classics! Besides, like hell am I wearing those fancy-ass shoes the rest of these bozos are wearing; they pinch my feet. I don’t know how you wear those death traps,” he says, gesturing to Fushimi’s shoes.

“Death traps? Only those who have no grace or are cowards call them that,” Fushimi replies, feeling his lips twitch in amusement.

“I ain’t no fuckin’ coward! Tch. Fine, challenge accepted.” He crosses his arms, almost defensively, spitting out the last few words with the hint of a pout.

“Oh? I wasn’t aware that there had been any challenged issued.”

The stranger’s eyes narrow, determination settling upon his face. “Well I know for a fact that I’m not graceless, or else I wouldn’t have been able to place in the All Japan Freestyle. But I sure as hell ain’t a coward either. And if the only way to prove it is to wear those damn spiked excuse for a pair of shoes, then so be it.”

“And if I refuse to lend you them? They are  _ my _ shoes after all.” On one hand, Fushimi is just fucking with him. He finds it amusing that he is so determined to prove himself, and he’s willing to let to let him try, if only so that he can have the gratification of watching him crash and burn. But on the other hand, Fushimi doesn’t necessarily want to let a stranger wear his shoes, and while he  _ would _ have a spare pair of flats to change into crammed in his clutch, his cat had decided they were the litter box of the day. He internally sighs, remembering the mess he had come across earlier that day when he came home from work. Taro, his cat who wasn’t even a year old yet, had been sitting beside the mess he had made of Fushimi’s shoes, cleaning the grey fur of his paw. And when Fushimi had made a noise of exasperation and glared pointedly at him, all Taro had done was stare up at him with falsely innocent gold eyes and ‘mrrow’ed. So now Fushimi’s stuck without a pair of shoes to change into until he can get a new pair, and heaven knows when that’ll be. He works overtime so often that by the time he finally leaves the office, most of the stores he prefers to shop at are closed. But maybe if…

“Then I’ll buy you a new pair! Any one you want.”

And  _ oh _ , that’s unexpected. Fushimi didn’t even have to gently nudge or manipulate him to get him to offer. It’s kind of… sweet, if a bit painfully earnest.

He tilts his head, searching the other’s expression for any hint of deceit. There’s none.

_ Tch. How naïve; any one I want? I could wipe out your bank account easily. _

But still, there’s something to be said for this guy offering to buy Fushimi, whom he barely knows, a new pair of shoes, even if it is technically for a self-serving reason.

“What would be your prize if you won this so called challenge, hmm?”

It’s this that makes the auburn haired man falter, a shadow of doubt passing across his face. His hand reaches back and scratches the back of his head shyly, cheeks reddening.

“Ah, well, heh. I was kinda hopin’ to get your number..?”

Fushimi smirks.  _ Bingo _ . It’s tamer than what most people usually want from him, but it seems to be on brand for what Fushimi knows of this man thus far. Fushimi won’t give in that easily though.

Pursing his lips slightly, he replies “I’ll give you my name once I have new shoes. My number depends on how well you manage to walk in mine.”

The other man cheers. “ _ Sweet! _ My name’s Yata M- er, Yatagarasu, yeah. You can call me Yata though.”

“Yata.” The name drips off of Fushimi’s tongue like wine from a spilled glass, and the way Yata’s face reddens even deeper at the sound of his name in Fushimi’s voice is delightful. Even if nothing comes from tonight, he’s sure to have fun teasing him at least. “Well, by all means. Lead the way out of here, Mr. Pro skateboarder. The place I want shoes from is 2 miles away and they close in an hour.”

“Oh-uh,  _ shit _ , yeah. Let’s go,” Yata curses as he fumbles his way around the bar stool.

And it’s not until they’re 5 steps out of the door that Yata realizes what Fushimi called him, stopping in his tracks.

“Wh- _ hey! _ You know what AJF is? Do you skate? I don’t remember seeing anyone who looks like you at comps.”

Fushimi huffs a laugh in response, “you’ll just have to wait to find out,” continuing on to their destination, without waiting for Yata to scramble to catch up.

~~~~~~

It continued on like that for the rest of their journey, Yata firing off a thousand questions a minute, with Fushimi humming in lieu of an actual answer, or throwing out a cryptic remark, which would cause Yata’s temper to flare. ‘Say what you mean and mean what you say’ was obviously a creed that Yata tried to live by, though Fushimi had the feeling there should probably be a few expletives thrown in for good measure.

Finally they reach their destination, and Fushimi watches in amusement as Yata stares unblinkingly at the display of shoes in the window, glitter and sparkles everywhere. The dumbfounded expression on Yata’s face is kind of cute, if Fushimi’s being honest.

He enters the shop, nodding a greeting at the clerk. Thankfully it’s someone who isn’t there that often when Fushimi goes; the last thing Fushimi needs is the clerk who knows him as a regular saying hello and spoiling the surprise of his name. It doesn’t take too long for Fushimi to find the shoes he wants, which is good, because Fushimi’s not sure Yata can be in the shop much longer without his brain short-circuiting. Apparently, fashion and diamond encrusted shoes are overwhelming to the skateboarder.

“I want these ones.” 

Yata shakes himself out of his dazed reverie, and looks down at the box in Fushimi’s hands. “You found a pair already? Damn that was fast.”

“Yes, well, I know what I like.” Fushimi lets a flirty tone creep into his words, enjoying the flustered look Yata gets.

He hands the box to Yata, who takes it up to the counter and deals with the transaction. It’s not until Fushimi gets the box back and hands Yata his black pumps—a stern warning falling from his lips, “be careful with those, they’re red bottoms”—that Yata becomes curious about the shoes he bought Fushimi.

“Whaddya end up choosin’ anyway?”

Fushimi deigns to not answer verbally, and instead, opens the box and unwraps what are sure to be his new  _ favorites. _ He slips them on his feet, and snorts at the sound of Yata choking, a harsh, aborted noise in the otherwise quiet shop.

“What’s wrong Yata? Cat got your tongue?”

Yata continues to struggle for words for a moment, before gesturing wildly at Fushimi’s new kicks. “What in the  _ hell _ are those?!”

“You don’t like them?” Fushimi pretends to pout, wiggling his feet a bit, “I personally  _ love _ them.” And he does actually. Fushimi had chosen a pair of black slides, fairly simple and unassuming, but the real kicker is the words printed on them.  _ TURBO THOT _ in bold white font, with various colors added to give it a vintage 3D feel. As Fushimi stands, he can tell that they’re actually comfortable, which is good. Fushimi would be irritated if he swapped heels for a pair of flat shoes only to have them be as or more painful.

Yata shakes his head in what Fushimi assumes is resignation. “I don’t fuckin’ understand ya, but whatever.” He sighs, before sitting down and starting to untie his sneakers. It’s quiet while Yata works to get his shoes off and Fushimi’s heels on. When he stands, he wobbles on the heels, obviously unused to the added height. There’s a chance he may be taller than Fushimi now, like this. Fushimi’s not sure how he feels about that. But as he watches Yata take a few unsteady steps in order to calibrate himself, Fushimi remembers what he was like the first time he wore heels. He was 17, wearing a pair of shoes he had nicked from his mother’s closet before he had abandoned home. It was just short of a disaster, to put it mildly. Fushimi had been like a baby deer on ice: all legs and no coordination.

Fushimi clicks his tongue. “You’ve managed to not fall so far, congratulations,” he remarks dryly. “But I think for you to be able to actually prove yourself, you’ll have to do more than just walk baby steps around the store.”

Yata looks back up from where he had been staring intently at his feet, expression hardening into something stubborn. “Fine. There’s someplace I wanna take ya anyway. It’s not far from here.”

Fushimi raises his eyebrows in expectancy, but Yata doesn’t answer; instead, he starts making his way out of the shop, converse in his grip, and yelling his thanks to the clerk. Fushimi follows him, nodding at the clerk again as he exits.

“Any plan to tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope,” Yata replies glibly, popping his lips on the ‘p’.

Fushimi crosses his arms and purses his lips. “Tch.”

_ Where the hell is he taking me? _

And while Yata said their next stop wasn’t far from where they had been, as they keep walking they cross over into the more urban area of the city, a place Fushimi isn’t as familiar with as he is with the higher class area. Yata is obviously familiar with the area though, ducking under overhangs hidden in the shadows and deftly avoiding cracks in the ground that could cause someone to trip if they weren’t paying attention. Fushimi silently follows, pondering their possible destination, while Yata leads him through back alleyways and obscured, pathetic excuses for streets.

“We’re here!”

Fushimi glances from where Yata is standing, arms crossed and looking smug, to the building in front of him. It doesn’t look like much; a hole-in-the-wall type of place that doesn’t advertise what it is, other than the glowing red letters spelling out ‘HOMRA’ in a gothic font. The letters aren’t even all working either; the ‘o’ keeps blinking in and out of existence, making the sign look even more like just a string of nonsensical letters when the ‘o’ is out.

The hum of electricity is the only sound surrounding them, save for the cliché alley noise of a stray cat howling followed by cans clattering to the ground.

“What exactly is …here?”

“I know it doesn’t look like much right now, but it’s a really cool arcade inside! There’s all types of shit,” Yata boasts.

_ An arcade _ . That surprises Fushimi, but really, at this point, he should know better than to underestimate Yata. He had only stumbled once or twice in Fushimi’s heels on the way over here, doing far better than Fushimi had initially expected. Fushimi turns and looks at his companion, studying the way the light from the red glow of the sign washes over him. Fushimi thinks, for all that he doesn’t know about Yata, that this is where he belongs. There’s something about the way Yata is standing, just shy of basking in the carmine glow, that gives Fushimi the impression that this is the type of atmosphere Yata feels at home in. It’s in the way the light catches the gleam in his eyes, the shadows cast upon his face, his relaxed stance and easy, carefree expression. Fushimi’s no poet but he wouldn’t hesitate to describe this instance as breathtaking. And as Yata meets his eyes, he’s nothing short of beautiful.

He hums, considering. “Prove it then. Show me all of this ‘cool shit’.”

“Heh, as you wish Mysterio.”

The ‘Mysterio’ throws Fushimi for a second; he had forgotten that he was supposed to give Yata his name after he got new shoes. But it appears that Yata had forgotten too; the other man shows no sign of remembering their deal. Fushimi doesn’t doubt that if Yata did remember, he’d be nagging at Fushimi until he gave it. Not to mention, he’s still in drag and that Yata probably assumes Fushimi is a woman—though the fact that Yata didn’t tack on a ‘miss’ to Mysterio gives him the slightest cause to believe otherwise. It isn’t often that Fushimi finds someone he’s comfortable enough with to be able to forget himself. It’s a nice change of pace, though he wonders how Yata would react ~~when~~ _if_ he found out. He can’t help the tiny part of him that hopes that Yata won’t care and is understanding of this as he’s been of Fushimi so far. 

Yata opens the door, the noise from the inside of the arcade breaking Fushimi’s train of thought. The two of them walk in, Fushimi looking all over, cataloging everything he sees, while Yata scans the room more intently. Fushimi doesn’t know what Yata’s looking for, but he can only imagine how out of place they look, with the pair both dressed way above what social norms for an arcade require.

Yata must find whatever he was looking for, because he grabs Fushimi’s hand and tugs, throwing out a quick “C’mon, there’s someone I want you to meet,” before running off.

_ So it’s a who, not a what. _

“Yo, Kusanagi!”

“Ah, Misaki. Back again so soon are we?”

Yata suddenly stops, and Fushimi almost runs into him. Yata yanks his hand out of Fushimi’s and throws his hands up in the air, somehow maintaining his hold on his sneakers. “I’ve told ya, call me Yata!  _ Ya. Ta. _ Honestly, what the  _ fuck _ Kusanagi?” he screeches.

_ Misaki. _

_ So that’s his first name. _

Kusanagi, apparently, holds his hands up apologetically. “Sorry, sorry.”

There’s a lull for a moment while Kusanagi eyes Fushimi and Yata attempts to calm down. Fushimi snatches the opportunity.

“You shouldn’t swear at your elders,  _ Misaki _ ,” Fushimi drawls, the name dripping off his tongue saccharinely. The knowledge of Yata’s first name is intoxicating; he could get drunk off the sound of it alone.

Any calm Yata had managed to reacquire up until that point vanishes. His face reddens and he whirls around to face Fushimi. “Not you too! Shut up! Fuckin’ shit.”

“Now now, Yata. Your friend is right, although I don’t appreciate the slight at my age,” Kusanagi interjects, aiming the last bit towards Fushimi. “Besides, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Ah, well. That’s kinda complicated since I don’t exactly know their name yet,” Yata replies, side-eyeing Fushimi.

Yata’s use of ‘their’ to refer to Fushimi gives the tiny spark of hope fluttering in his chest more ammunition and he has to force himself to crush it; better to not have any hopes and end up fine with the results either way, than to let his hopes get too high, only for them to come crashing down in disappointment.

At Kusanagi’s skeptical look Fushimi steps forward. Normally, he’d let Yata flounder to explain himself, but Fushimi’s feeling generous at the moment. It’s possible that it has somewhat to do with Fushimi finding out Yata’s given name, but he doesn’t feel like digging deeper into it.

“ _ Misaki _ over here decided to take it upon himself to challenge himself to walk in my shoes,” Fushimi says, nodding pointedly at Yata’s feet. “And his prize is my name at the end of the night.”

Kusanagi raises an eyebrow, still skeptical, and he shakes his head exasperatedly. “The stuff you get yourself into, Yata,” he remarks, fondness lacing his tone.

Fushimi smirks as Yata groans, too embarrassed to try and dignify that with a response. “Fuckin’ whatever. C’mon Mysterio, let’s go play some games.”

Yata leads him towards the back of the arcade, and they stop in front of a two-player machine decked out in sci-fi imagery.

“Space Invaders? Really?”

“Space Invaders is a classic! And hey, wait—you game?”

“Mmm, enough to know that I’ll beat you,” Fushimi answers, throwing a confident look Yata’s way.

“Pfft! We’ll see about that.”

And so begins a whirlwind of competition between the two. They play Space Invaders more than once, Fushimi beating Yata two out three times, before they move onto World of Wor (another win for Fushimi), Pac-man (Yata ends up with the higher score on his turn), and Galaga (the highest score goes to Fushimi, but it’s not his name he uses to fill the number 1 spot on the scoreboard—he uses Mysterio, enjoying the way Yata flushes). Yata absolutely crushes Fushimi at air hockey twice, and then they’re standing in front of what is to be their tie-breaker.

Dance Dance Revolution.

Fushimi snickers inwardly; the competition was already won with this one. He doesn’t doubt that Yata would prove to be a formidable opponent under normal circumstances, but if Yata doesn’t think to swap Fushimi’s heels for his sneakers, then, well, Fushimi’s not going to remind him.

“Alright, last game! Prepare to feel defeat, Mysterio, because I ain’t gonna go down without a fight.”

“Oh no, whatever will I do, please, have mercy,” Fushimi deadpans, before stepping onto the machine and scrolling through the list of songs.

It takes him a while to find the one he wants, and he can hear Yata complain in the background. “Jeez, picky, aren’t ya?”

Fushimi keeps his lips sealed as the song begins, the notes and corresponding moves slow and fairly easy. But when the beat begins to pick up and the moves start to complicate, Fushimi sees Yata struggle to keep up from the side of his vision.

_ ‘Cause every time we touch, I get this feeling _

_ And every time we kiss I swear I could fly _

Fushimi hasn’t missed a beat so far and has been adding some of his own flair, but Yata’s on the other side, hanging onto the railing behind him and trying to not flail around.

“I thought you said for me to prepare for defeat. But from over here, all I can taste is  _ winning _ , Misaki.”

Yata swings his head around to glare at Fushimi as the music fades and the screen declares Fushimi the winner. “Just you wait, you smug bastard. I declare a rematch,  _ without _ me wearing these shoes of death!”

Fushimi smirks. “Fine, doesn’t matter to me. But you do realize that if you win the next round, we’ll have to go a third time to actually break the tie.”

Yata stares in defiance, before turning back to the screen to choose their next song, muttering “whatever.” He kicks Fushimi’s heels off, and pulls on his sneakers while the game loads.

The music starts, and the tune sounds familiar to Fushimi but he can’t place it. Well, at least not until the lyrics start, and then Fushimi’s groaning.

_ Why’d he have to pick  _ this _ song. _

Yata—who’s doing much better at hitting every move this round, now that he’s not wearing heels—picks up on Fushimi’s annoyance and laughs.

“What’s wrong? Can’t handle the music?”

Fushimi glares at Yata.

Yata just smiles smugly and starts singing along, pleased by Fushimi’s irritation.

_ “Quiero respirar tu cuello despacito _

_ Deja que te diga cosas al oído _

_ Para que te acuerdes si no estás conmigo _

_ Despacito” _

He’s actually a decent singer, and manages to keep up with the lyrics while dancing well enough, but Fushimi won’t admit to that aloud.

Soon enough, the song draws to a close, and Fushimi isn’t sure which of the two of them the game will declare a winner. Yata had done well and kept up with Fushimi and the fast beat of the song with no issue. The machine’s screen finally finishes loading, Yata and Fushimi catching their breath meanwhile, and to Fushimi’s mirth, the two of them  _ tied _ . He laughs quietly as Yata squawks in indignation at the machine.

“Guess you still can’t beat me, huh Misaki?”

“Fuckin’ hell,  _ damnit! _ ” Yata grips his hair in frustration before sighing, tension leaving his body. Fushimi would be a fool to think the fight had left him, though. He’s learned that Yata is always ready to fight, easy to rile up, even at his most relaxed. “I guess you’re right, you win,” he concedes.

Fushimi takes a moment to gloat silently, but as Yata sits down to untie his sneakers and swap shoes again, he swiftly snatches up his heels and changes his own shoes.

“Ah,  _ ah, ah. _ You’ll get these back in a minute. Watch and learn, Misaki.”

Fushimi changes the settings on the screen from two-player to solo and finds the song he wants. Settling back into his heels, he sways his hips slowly as the music starts out slow and the corresponding moves appear almost glacially. His arms rise up above his head, crossed lazily at the wrists, and when the beat picks up tempo, he drops into a deep squat before bouncing back up and moving his feet to match the moves.

_ They call me homewrecker _

_ Homewrecker (I'm only happy when I'm on the run) _

_ They call me homewrecker _

_ Homewrecker (I broke a million hearts just for fun) _

_ I'm only happy when I'm on the run _

_ I break a million hearts just for fun _

_ I don't belong to anyone _

_ I guess you could say that my life's a mess _

_ But I'm still looking pretty in this dress _

_ I'm the image of deception _

The music goes back and forth between slow and fast and Fushimi follows the switch with ease, body never ceasing to undulate. He’s like a snake slithering in the forest, silent and unseen, but not any less deadly. His body is his weapon and he will be  _ damned _ if he doesn’t use it.

When he finishes, the screen blinking at him ‘ _ You did  _ **_great_ ** _! _ ’, Fushimi turns around to see Yata gaping like a fish, eyes wide and unblinking. His face is the reddest it’s been all night, and Fushimi smirks, knowing he’s the cause.

He steps down from the platform, walking over to where his slides and Yata are. Fushimi uses a finger to close Yata’s jaw and lightly caresses his cheek as he moves by. “And  _ that’s _ how it’s done, Misaki.”

There’s no sound from behind him as he sits and switches shoes, and when he turns back around, Yata’s gaze hasn’t left Fushimi. Yata’s mouth opens and closes a few times, struggling to get whatever it is he wants to say out.

“You’re really somethin’ else, ya know that?” Yata remarks, face a mix of fond and awe. Fushimi blinks, surprised, and Yata continues, “like just when I think I have ya figured out, you go and surprise me yet again. First with the knife—which was really fuckin’ cool by the way—then the shoes you picked, and now your prowess at basically everything in here. Like shit, Mysterio, is there anything you can’t do?” He laughs a bit awkwardly. “You’re irritatingly smug and sarcastic and ya won’t tell me damned near anything about yourself—hell, I don’t even know your name but I think I’m half in love with ya already.”

And  _ oh. _ Fushimi’s received confessions before, but never ones like this. They’re always ones that praise him for his body and how he looks, infatuation and obsession from one-night stands blinding them to his faults. They’re never like this, acknowledging that he’s a piece of work while simultaneously admiring him for more than his physical traits. For the second time that night, Fushimi feels his impulse control slipping away.

“Fushimi.”

Yata’s brow furrows in confusion. “Hah? What the hell is a ‘Fushimi’?”

Fushimi licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. This entire night with Yata has been like a glass of cold water on a hot summer day, and Fushimi is a dying man, desperate for one last sip. “My name. It’s Fushimi Saruhiko. I never gave it to you earlier.”

He’d add one of his trademark sarcastic quips to the end of his confession but Yata is being so painfully genuine and the air between them is filled with a fragile tension that feels like it could break at any moment. He doesn’t want to break it—Fushimi doesn’t want this night to end.

Fushimi watches as realization dawns on Yata’s face.

“I—oh.  _ Oh. _ ”

“And I’m a man, for the record, but I appreciate your attempt at being unassuming,” he huffs quietly in amusement. “I just like to dress in drag sometimes when I go out because it gives me a break from being who I normally am. I work in a government office and have to deal with a lot of paperwork and bureaucratic bullshit. Not to mention the godawful uniform. I hate vegetables. I own a cat; his name is Taro. I’ve never been in love; I’m not sure if I believe in it, at this point. Blood and flesh on the other hand are physical, tangible,  _ real. _ I’m blunt, and you’re right, sarcastic. I hate people on the best of days, and I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this much about myself, let alone in one breath.”

Fushimi doesn’t open up to people. Toxic parents left their scars and now he’s infuriatingly bitter, reclusive except for his clubbing and sleeping around. But all his partners knew they were one night stands, and anyone Fushimi encounters that tries to be even a modicum of friendly, he pushes away with his prickly exterior and caustic attitude. He refuses to let anyone in—he won’t be the one who’s left behind.

“But—” he continues, taking a breath, “and I don’t know what it is about you—you make me want to try. You’re stubborn and an idiot and naïve, but you’re sincere and for some godforsaken reason I’ve had more fun with you tonight than I’ve had with anyone in a long time.”

There. He’s out with it. He may have uncharacteristically word-vomited, giving up pieces of himself in one go to make up for the lack of information he’s been giving all night, and he hates how vulnerable he feels, but if this is the price he has to pay for wanting to keep Yata around, then so be it.

The fragile tension between them is almost palpable now and neither of them speaks for what feels like eternity, but what Fushimi recognizes as likely only a minute or two. Yata hasn’t answered yet and Fushimi’s just standing there awkwardly, lips pursed in irritation and anxiety, and he’s about ready to say fuck it, and get the hell out of dodge, saving what little scraps of his dignity is left, when Yata finds his voice.

“…You have a cat named  _ Taro _ ?” 

_ That’s what he chooses to pick on? Idiot. _

Fushimi clicks his tongue, and lifts his chin in defiance while crossing his arms, assuming a defensive stance. “Don’t ask pointless questions you know the answer to.”

Yata’s expression is a blend of confused and pensive, twisted in thought. Fushimi thinks it looks painful. “I thought you hated veggies though. Is your cat super manly or some shit?”

He sighs and averts his gaze. “No,” Fushimi mutters, “I named him after taro milk tea.”

Yata snorts. “Fuckin’ nerd.”

Fushimi snaps his gaze back to Yata’s face and narrows his eyes shrewdly. “As if you’re one to talk, Misaki.”

“Oi, I ain’t tryin’ to insult ya. I just found it funny, s’all. It’s kinda cute too.” Yata’s grinning widely by this point, enjoying messing with Fushimi. Fushimi’s irritated, but also relieved—the air between them has gone back to almost normal now, and Fushimi feels like he can breathe again.

“Tch. Whatever.” Fushimi can feel his face warm and he looks away, not wanting Yata to see he’s flustered.

“Aww, don’t be like that, Saru—can I call you Saru? You keep fuckin’ calling me Misaki so I’m gonna—we were actually getting somewhere!”

_ Saru. _

It’s a nickname—probably the first one Fushimi’s ever had, with the exception of overused pet names from older men and taunting ones from his parents. He’s not sure how to describe how it makes him feel, other than warm. It’s unsettling how much Yata affects Fushimi; even the littlest things can make his pulse quicken and heartbeat skip. The two of them are like magnets, practically polar opposites but drawn together, either in spite of it or because of it. Fushimi isn’t one to believe in nonsensical things like fate, but if he was, he’d hazard a guess that meeting Yata was the universe’s way of making up for his past.

“Call me whatever. I don’t care.”

“Yeah, sure, okay,” Yata responds, disbelievingly. His voice sounds hesitant, though, as he asks “would you, uh, wanna go grab some food? I’m kinda starving.”

And it’s reassuring to Fushimi to hear the hesitancy in Yata’s voice. It reminds him that he’s not the only one wading in unfamiliar waters, not the only one who can get hurt.

“Alright.”

It’s like watching the sun rise, seeing the shy smile unfurl across Yata’s face. Fushimi’s own lips quirk up in response.

“ _ Sweet _ , cool—uh, do you have a preference on where? I dunno many places that’re still open this time of night, but there is this diner that’s open 24 hours that ain’t too bad.”

“Oh, well, if it ‘ain’t too bad’ then we simply  _ must go _ ,” Fushimi drawls, teasing him.

Yata rolls his eyes, but his smile doesn’t drop. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, you fussy bastard. Let’s go.”

He steps past Fushimi, moving towards the exit, and Fushimi follows him for what seems like the umpteenth time that night. Yata yells his goodbye to Kusanagi and as they walk out the door back into the badly lit street, he grabs Fushimi’s free hand with his own. Fushimi glances at him and Yata is staring pointedly forward, avoiding looking at Fushimi, with pink cheeks. Fushimi looks down towards their intertwined hands and smiles softly.

_ Cute. _

~~~~~~

Despite Yata’s less than convincing description of it and Fushimi’s low expectations, the diner actually was fairly decent. It was quiet, which wasn’t too unusual considering how late at night it was, and while it did incorporate some of the “traditional” diner elements, it wasn’t just the stereotypical 50’s layout. If Fushimi had to put a name to it, he’d say it had more of a vaporwave aesthetic, with ambient lighting ranging from blues to purples to pinks, and retro 80’s/90’s art prints and marble statues.

The food was good too, though Yata kept making fun of Fushimi for nitpicking over the menu and trying to find something without vegetables. He ended up ordering pancakes and drowned them in syrup, much to Yata’s amusement. Yata had ordered an omelette filled with so many veggies, Fushimi couldn’t help but side-eye it in disgust.

_ “So ya don’t eat your veggies and you have a sweet tooth, huh? You’re like a fuckin’ lil kid, yanno that?” _

_ “…Tch. Shut up.” _

Apparently the diner was run by the family of one of Yata’s friends and he went there often. According to him it was “ _ the number one place to eat a shitton after a giant comp!”, _ though he did admit that the coffee tasted like crap and had barely enough caffeine in it to keep him awake.

The two of them were there for probably close to an hour, sitting in their booth and talking, but now they stood in front of the door to Fushimi’s apartment in anxious silence, neither of them knowing what to say.

Fushimi’s keys are in the apartment doorknob, ready to unlock with the twist of a wrist, but he’s staring at Yata, and then looking away when they make eye contact. Yata’s doing the same, chewing on his lower lip nervously and scratching the back of his head meanwhile.

“Sooo…”

“Misaki,” Fushimi cuts in sharply.

“I—yeah?”

“Don’t waste time with pointless words.”

“ _ Oi _ —“

Yata’s cut off by Fushimi yanking him forward by his tie and kissing him.

It’s not an ideal angle, but after getting over his shock, Yata presses back, shifting to slot their lips together better. It lasts for only a moment, maybe two, but Fushimi feels electric, like a livewire about to spark. Too soon, he’s stepping back and letting go of Yata, who’s looking at him with dazed eyes and flushed skin.

“What…?”

Fushimi smirks, unlocking the door. “Goodnight Misaki.” He steps into his apartment, and closes the door on Yata, who’s still standing there looking confused. As he walks further into his apartment to set his shoes down, Fushimi pulls out his phone and begins typing a message.

**To: 0x-xxxx-xxxx**

**Me** : You did well enough, so here’s your prize.

**Me** : And don’t stand there all night like an idiot, Misaki.

**0x-xxxx-xxxx** : ???? who tf is this and how did u get my number?

**Me** : It should be obvious who it is, Misaki.

**Me** : I swiped your number from your phone at the diner when you left the table. Your passcode was too easy to guess.

**Misaki:** SARUHIKO??

**Misaki:** HOW DID U GUESS MY PASSWORD, BASTARD (凸ಠ益ಠ)凸

**Me** : sk8rboi4lyfe is something only an idiot would put.

**Me** : This isn't myspace in 2004.

**Misaki** : WTF?! im gonna have to change it now, thxs

**Misaki** : ......

**Misaki** : i cant believe i forgot to get ur number tho, i guess it is a good thing u FUCKIN STOLE MY PHONE (҂-̀_-́)

**Me** : Don't expect me to remember things for you again.

**Misaki** : yeah yeah whatever

**Misaki** : thxs tho

**Me** : Goodnight Misaki.

**Misaki** : night saru “ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Fushimi smiles a bit and tosses his phone onto his bed. He'll have time to talk to Yata tomorrow, but for now, he needs to wash his face and go to sleep. Tomorrow's a work day, afterall.

**Author's Note:**

> pls come scream k/misarumi at me on twitter! @ hakvryv or @ GALRAAKEITH
> 
> OH yeah i forgot to mention but the whole debacle over taro's name in this is based upon the different kanji for the name taro lol. fushimi's reasoning for naming his cat taro is the same reason why i named my cat that


End file.
